Stranger With My Face
by Travithian Axile
Summary: PostDMC1. Someone that looks like Dante has been running around on killing spree. Now a fugitive from justice, Dante has to figure out what happened with only Trish and his handy weapons with him.


**DEVIL MAY CRY:**

STRANGER WITH MY FACE PROLOGUE: A DREAM OF THE STORM 

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Stranger with my face Fallen, from heaven and God's grace Tell me with truth, brother dearest 

_In your senseless dream did you put me first?_

_You died never hearing what I wished to say _

_Which, truly, was the one who died that day?_

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Joseph Harvathon hurried through the dimly lit streets, the orange glow of the solitary streetlamps, standing like silent sentinels along the road, throwing his shadow into warped shapes behind and before him. He walked, one hand on his felt hat, the wind's vicious tug yanking at the aforementioned hat and hem of his old, badly-patched coat. Silently the rain fell through the deathly night, capturing a sliver of the light as they cascaded downwards, a shower of jewel-bright shards.

But Joseph Harvathon had neither the inclination nor the nature to enjoy the gloomy beauty of his city. Shoulders hunched beneath the combined assault of wind and rain, his was the weary tread of a man who slept little and worried much. His mind buzzed with questions, of doubts, overdue bills, his job, and his wife. Still, it would have been little comfort to know that his petty little concerns would shortly be coming to an abrupt end.

The streets were deserted, and it seemed the only sound of the world was the constant drone of the rain against the pavement and the mournful howl of the wind as it swept through the drenched sky. Nervous and angry, Joseph silently cursed his boss, a smug, self-absorbed toad of a man who was responsible for his late hours. Other complaints flitted around his head: he hadn't done anything, it was all Sarah's fault, damn her for leaving him anyway, if only Ben would do his share of the work, his son, off in France, with no word since he'd left…

He squinted into the glassy brightness of the rain. A few yards before him stood a figure, standing directly beneath a streetlight so that its face, lowered into the upturned collar of the oversized trenchcoat, was thrown into shadow. Silvery-white hair gleamed in the meager glow offered by the lamps. It was stooped like an old man; as he approached, the stranger slowly straightened and looked full into his face. As a squirrel will, in the reach of a coiling snake, he froze, transfixed with a sense of impending doom, as the stranger walked slowly towards him, calm and unhurried.

The spell broke. Joseph spun and ran, his boots slapping with frantic urgency on the wet pavement. A skid, a slip—hands on the stone, the heavy file crashing down and scattering papers that were soon shredded by the gleeful wind (_admin will be so _goddamn _mad_), the birth of a scream scouring his throat raw as he fled from a nameless horror that gripped him and gave his feet wings.

He fell again, in his choking fear, and scrambled up. Joseph was not a fanciful man, nor was he given to flights of imagination or impulse. But this was real, a small primal part of his brain that had been there since the birth of man's ancestor insisted, and it screamed for self-preservation. He could hear, through the frenzy, the man's slow, measured footsteps, sounding like his own death knell.

He collapsed, wheezing, cursing his lack of condition. He could run no longer. He looked up into the face of his pursuer, into the man's pale blue eyes, electric against the black night. The man's visage was inhuman, emotionless. Joseph had might as well be looking into one of Apollo's inscrutable marbled face.

"Who…" Joseph tried to get the words out, but fear cut his voice off. He could only stare, his eyes wide, pleading pools of terror. As though a switch had been hit, the man's expression changed, contorted, into one of purest, malignant evil, one side of his lip curling in a lopsided, insane grin. He lunged forward.

Joseph had time to see the silver flash cutting its way to his neck. He had no time to scream.

_**end Prologue.**_

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**Author's Ending Note: **Reviews, praise and criticism alike, will be welcomed. I hope that you have enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing this. I assure you that future chapters will be longer; this is, after all, merely an introduction.

For 'Not Knowing What Tomorrow Brings' readers, be assured that I am working on the third chapter and will endeavor to churn it out by the end of the month.

**Yours truly, T. Axile.**

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